


VII. Monte

by notablyindigo



Series: The Better Half [7]
Category: Elementary (TV)
Genre: Anxiety, Depression, Multi, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-26
Updated: 2014-02-26
Packaged: 2018-01-13 21:20:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,307
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1241161
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notablyindigo/pseuds/notablyindigo





	VII. Monte

The year of her suspension, the winter weather seems to cling interminably to New York. Joan can’t help but see the last late-April sleet storm as a final karmic “fuck you”, but two days later the temperature spikes into the 80s, covering Brooklyn in snowmelt and turning Central Park into one vast, muddy continuation of the turtle pond. Almost at once, it’s springtime in the city—the cherry trees bursting forth with blossoms while the bulb flowers finally make their way up from under the ground. For a full week after, Joan wanders around with a pair of earmuffs and an umbrella in her purse, cross-indexing weather reports in search of some inevitable meteorological betrayal. Eventually, finding none, she caves and embraces the warmer weather, pulling her skirts and sundresses out from storage and stowing away her winter coats.

Spring has always been Joan’s favorite time of year; she loves how colorful everything becomes (flora, wardrobes, shop window displays), how she can finally have breakfast on restaurant patios. She’s the only New Yorker she knows who actually enjoys it when the city swells with fair-weather tourists. As a girl, she’d greeted the spring by helping her mother plant fresh cartons of impatiens and petunias in the garden. Though she never quite inherited her mother’s green thumb, she tries to keep the tradition alive on the smaller scale of the planter box in her kitchen window—herbs, mostly, since her bimodal enthusiasm and negligence tends to kill flower plants, though last year she’d kept a geranium alive for a whole four months before overwatering it to death.

Joan doesn’t think she’ll manage anything like that this year, though. She stands in the kitchen waiting for her tea to steep and looks at the dry soil in the planter, remembering the gray days in the bowels of February when she’d barely had the energy to crawl out of bed to feed herself, let alone care for houseplants. At the time, she’d chalked it up to a bad bout of seasonal affective disorder, but now (mostly) on the other side of it, she knows the truth. It had taken six months to climb out from under the weight of the nothingness that had descended after her suspension (days on end spent on the couch, broken only by trips to see Dr. Reed for what became increasingly difficult therapy sessions), but things were finally stabilizing, if not measurably improving.

Her cell phone rings once, twice. Joan glances over at it and grimaces, decides to ignore it, then reconsiders. She can’t keep fielding their calls. With a sigh, she picks up the phone and raises it to her ear.

“Hey, Don,” she says, trying to sound casual.

“Joan! Hey! Glad you picked up! We were beginning to wonder what had happened to you.” He sounds relieved, but Joan can feel the anxiety clawing at her throat. She swallows hard. 

“Everything’s fine. Sorry for worrying you.”

“Not at all, not at all, “ he says, and she can picture him leaning back in his chair at the front desk. “You’ve got your own life to lead. We just haven’t seen you in a couple months and were wondering if you’re still interested in volunteering your time with us.” His tone is light, friendly, which makes Joan feel even worse. She pinches the bridge of her nose, begins to pace about the kitchen.

“I am, I’m interested, it’s just—.”

“Fantastic!” he exclaims, cutting her off (he’s always been exhaustingly high-enthusiasm, but it makes him good at what he does). “Would you maybe be able to come in today? We’re a bit short staffed. Seems everyone’s out enjoying the weather, but we’ve got the usual springtime influx of seasonal clients. Could really use the help.” Joan sighs again. Her tea sits forgotten on the counter.

“I’d like to, I really would, but today’s not really the best—.”

“Martin Luh’s here,” Don interjects, and Joan stops cold.

Casual, she coaches herself sternly. Stay casual.

“He is?” she asks, too eager, and already she’s giving herself away. “I didn’t realize he was back in town.”

“Came in about a week ago, by the sound of it. He’s been staying here at the center for the last few days.” Don clears his throat. “He’s on his meds. Looks good, might’ve even gained some weight.” A beat. “He’s been asking for you, Joan.”

Her heart skips a beat.

Spring brings a lot of things back to New York with it—wildflowers at the Highline, Mets games, and wave after wave of tourists—but for Joan the warming temperatures always signaled a return of another kind.

“Any idea where he spent the winter?” she asks, hurrying to her bedroom and scanning her closet for something to wear. 

“Not sure,” Don says. “Says he came up on a bus from South Carolina, though it must’ve been a series of buses. I don’t know any one service that’d get you all the way here in one shot.” He pauses. “So…can I assume you’re coming in, then?” Joan wedges the phone between her ear and shoulder so she can pull on her leggings.

“Yeah…I’ll be there.”

“Fantastic!” She can practically hear Don’s grin through the phone. “Martin’ll be real glad to see you.”

Not so sure about that, she wants to say, but she agrees, says goodbye, and puts down the phone. 

Joan finishes getting dressed and regards herself in the vanity mirror. She looks tired, but that’s nothing new. Experimentally, she dabs on a bit of concealer to try and mask the circles under her eyes, but hates it and immediately wipes it off.

She grabs her purse and keys and troops to the kitchen, makes a whole loaf of bread worth of tuna sandwiches (last time she checked, he liked tuna), and sets out on foot, stepping around the small rivers still coursing through the gutters. In spite of the water everywhere, it’s a good day for a walk—blue skies, a light breeze, and the neighborhood’s toddlers are out en mass, stomping in puddles and peeling up earthworms from the sidewalk. Joan considers calling her mother to tell her…what? That a man she hasn’t seen in over ten years is back in town? Best not.

She gnaws her lip as she walks, twists and untwists the handles of the plastic bag with the sandwiches in it. “What’ve you been up to this past year, Joan?” she imagines him asking. And how to respond? “Oh, nothing much. Killed a patient. Lost my job. Trying to figure out where to go from here.” Not likely. 

But then she’s there in the foyer of the homeless center, and Don is greeting her, his booming voice larger than life. 

“Joan! Good to see you! You look great.” (She doesn’t, but it’s good of him to say.)

“I brought sandwiches,” she says, holding up the bag. “Figured I could pass them out while I’m here.”

“Fantastic!” Don says. “Really fantastic.” He ushers her up a flight of stairs to the residential floor, past room after room full of bunk beds. Finally, he stops in front of a room and opens the door, ushers her in before him. The room is packed with people, bodies sliding past one another in the narrow corridors between the beds. Don guides Joan along the edge of the room, scanning the crowd until he spots a man sitting on a bunk in the back corner.

“Martin!” he says as they approach. “Someone here to see you!” The man looks up, his dark eyes large under tufted gray eyebrows. He catches sight of them, and his face splits into a wide, toothy grin.

“Joanie!” he says, reaching for her hand. Joan drops to her knees next to the bed and smiles back at him. She has butterflies.

“Hi Dad.”


End file.
